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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27680749">Bubblegum Pop Psychology</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/voltemand/pseuds/voltemand'>voltemand</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Community (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Popstar, F/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 01:00:29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,134</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27680749</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/voltemand/pseuds/voltemand</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>So, all things considered, it’s a huge and understandable struggle not to scream at her like a banshee on coke driving a VW Bug twenty over the speed limit on a country road with, say, a moderately famous and immoderately attractive Southern European royal in tow. Not that he has any experience with that.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Britta Perry/Jeff Winger</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Bubblegum Pop Psychology</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/annieedisongf/gifts">annieedisongf</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“You’re going to therapy” is how Frankie greets him on a Monday morning when he has a massive fucking hangover and he was too tired to talk to any girls last night and Annie called an hour ago saying another stalker had peed on his car. So, all things considered, it’s a huge and understandable struggle not to scream at her like a banshee on coke driving a VW Bug twenty over the speed limit on a country road with, say, a moderately famous and immoderately attractive Southern European royal in tow. Not that he has any experience with that.</p><p>Come on. <i>Therapy</i>? For him? Jeff Winger? Pshaw. “I am super fucking stable,” Jeff tells her because there isn’t much else to say, because it’s true. Duh. “I am the most stable motherfucker you have ever met, Dart.”</p><p>She pats him on the head. “Keep telling yourself that.” But that’s because Frankie is an enormous bitch who Jeff would probably be in love with if she wasn’t gay and he didn’t have a few (like, objectively kind of minimal) standards, not because he needs therapy. Which he doesn’t.</p><p>He tells her this, using his patented (no, really, it caused a huge stir in <i>People</i> when they saw him with the lawyer) Winger charm.</p><p>“Poor Jeff,” Frankie says. “We’re going to get you some self-actualization. Some self-esteem.”</p><p>Jeff sticks his tongue out at her. He’s been told that’s effective.</p><p>Goddamn lesbians, though, because he still finds himself in a shiny white office at the end of the day, tapping his feet and waiting for Dr. Britta Perry to see him.</p><p>The receptionist leans over her desk. “Hi, Mr.…” She pauses like she’s trying to fish out the name, or maybe just the face, from the deep sea of soap operas and Wheel of Fortune that Jeff is sure makes up her brain. “Winger?”</p><p>Jeff’s wearing scruffy shoes and CVS sunglasses and he was hungry as fuck on the way here, so there’s still a greasy piece of paper smelling like salt and oil sticking out of his right jeans pocket. He makes his voice a little higher than usual. “That’s me.” It’s always fun to see when they figure out.</p><p>She nods, doesn’t say anything. Fine. She’s being professional. “Okay. Dr. Perry can see you.”</p><p>He walks into the room, sort of sauntering. Jeff is struck first by how clean the walls are (no certificates?!) and secondly by how very messy the woman sitting at the desk is, her clothes rumpled and hair askew. He can’t see much, but her forehead and the table seem to be in a loving embrace, and he hears the muffled buzz of a snore. “Hello?” he offers.</p><p>She doesn’t wake up. Jeff’s beginning to worry he’s walked into some sort of prank. He imagines what he’ll say to Frankie. <i>Uhh, what the fuck?</i> is all he’s got so far when he hears a stir. The woman pops up, marionette-style, and fixes him with a bespectacled, bleary, blue-eyed gaze.</p><p>“Hi,” she mumbles. “I’m… are you Jeff? Hi. Uh, I already said that—you’re Jeff, right? I’m Dr. Perry.”</p><p>So, this is his new shrink. He takes a few steps toward the desk, trying not to seem too weirded-out. Dr. Perry extends her arm, and he winces at the crusty dried <i>something</i> on her sleeve. “Nice to meet you,” he says, a bit weakly.</p><p>Her form of eye contact is intense, to say the least. She’s got more gunk on her lashes than he’s seen in years, probably, and her makeup is just <i>awful</i>. “Can you remind me why you’re here, Jeff?”</p><p>“Aren’t you supposed to know that?” Yeah, it’s rude, but he’s paying through the nose for this. Okay, maybe through the earlobe, which hurts less if his tattoo guy is to be believed, but he’s paying for this. Is the point. He’s allowed some customer satisfaction, or whatever. </p><p>She blinks. In the past, people have probably told her she looks owlish with those glasses; in reality, her closest avian relation is probably a flamingo: skinny and weird and a little smelly. “I’d like,” she says, not very confidently, “to analyze it through a <i>Freudian</i> lens. And, um, you know, Freud liked to ask the patients himself.” She pauses. “Unless you disagree?”</p><p>Jeff looks up at the ceiling. Hour long appointment, his ass. Frankie is going to get a fucking word from him. “Can you name any relevant facts about me?” She looks expectantly at him. Jesus Christ. “<i>Jeff Winger</i>? Early-aughts sensation? Lead singer of the hottest boy band since the Beatles? Object of masturbatory fantasy for every straight girl who grew up with access to MTV?”</p><p>“I thought you were closer to Jeff Winger, well-known fuck-up, washed-out child prodigy, possible alcoholic, and tabloids darling?” Dr. Perry rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t seem especially annoyed.</p><p>“Whatever.” Jeff sucks in air through his teeth. “I’m saying that it’s your duty as a physician—as a therapist, or just a human being, actually, because I don’t see any degrees on your walls—to do your fucking job and know your patient! Not a lot to ask.” She stays silent, and he adds “Are you even a therapist?”</p><p>“Obviously I’m a therapist.” She pulls out a notepad. “What’s your relationship like with your mother?”</p><p>“I don’t want to fuck my mom. God, how old are you? Isn’t all of that stuff completely outdated?”</p><p>“But how are things with her?” He looks down at her notepad. She’s written <i><strike>MOM?</strike> GAY?</i> and then, in smaller letters, <i>Paige brunch tomorrow</i>.</p><p>“You can’t just ask if I’m gay!”
</p><p>“But are you?”</p><p>“No!”</p><p>“Ever taken drugs?”</p><p>“Have <i>you</i>?”</p><p>“You’re don’t seem to like my therapy. Most of my clients—”</p><p>“You have <i>multiple</i> clients? Clients with an s? As in more than one?”</p><p>“Don’t worry,” Dr. Perry says drily, “I make at least ten dollars a year.”</p><p>Jeff isn’t sure how to respond to that, and they sit in silence for a minute. He starts tapping his foot. Just when he’s about to say something along the lines of <i>so, how did Frankie even find you and what other idiots hire you</i>, Dr. Perry grins suddenly, her teeth white and straight and incongruous with the rest of her. “You have daddy issues.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“You have daddy issues. Don’t tell me about them. I’ll read Page 6 once you leave.”</p><p>“<i>What?</i>” Jeff repeats.</p><p>Dr. Perry whistles. “Vicki,” she calls, and the receptionist promptly appears at the door. “Get him out of here.”</p><p>Jeff stares at her. “Is she your fucking bouncer?”</p><p>“Sort of!” sings Dr. Perry. She’s terribly off-tune. “See you next week!”</p><p>Jeff isn’t sure how he gets to his car. “Home,” he tells Annie. “And get my manager on the phone.”</p><p>Frankie had better fucking explain herself.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Yell with me on Tumblr at <a href="https://withatalentforsquaddrill.tumblr.com">withatalentforsquaddrill</a> (for general bullshit) or <a href="https://foresme.tumblr.com">foresme</a> (for fandom bullshit).</p></blockquote></div></div>
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